Berlin, eternally

By Annemarie Alms

Despite dating back to the thirteenth century, Berlin is such a mysteriously modern place. It was destroyed by bombs. And so, in the city, you feel the weight of these ghosts. Their blood suspended in the air: an anti-war cry. An anthem. A glimmer of hope.

3 a.m. 
Cobblestone soaking moonlight 
beneath a closed window. Little 
nuns rush to bolt her door. 

So—she’d rinse with 
Vinegar. Between mouthfuls: “Calm yourself.
All’s well in limelight, in the corner of this room.” With her 

thighs ballooning out on 
the wooden floor. Legs, her legs, like perfect
halves of a coffee bean. 

Blue eyes and 
Lips like stapled sheets. 
—She imagines—  
Melting sunlight on cold 
grass. Morning doves Gazing 
down, Away, a 
world Away. Separating 
her 
from their feathers. 

Empty, now, she 
breathes. Spreads her hand across an Ugly 
blanket. an Uneven, Corkscrewed 
thing. layered among the Ash, 
Dust, and Rubble. 

“Make your bed,” she 
whispers. But 
Imagines—She imagines—can only 
imagine: 
Cloudless sky. and 
Cursive wind spiraling through her feathers.